Lisbon Voyage

There are worse ways to pass the time waiting for a delayed flight than playing a friendly game of Twenty Questions but when the game is played between three Cambridge students you would be hard pushed to think of them. Coca Cola is a mineral, Norn Irish readers you shall appreciate this witty joke. Everyone else, you will do what my companions felt like doing and mentally slap me upside my head.

We were headed to Lisbon, we don't know why, we don't know how but we were flying cheap and easy. Easyjet. I had my collar turned up and a fedora pulled down low should Michael O'Leary walk by. All that orange wasn't natural and that's not just because I kick with the other foot. Norn Irish readers, we're off again...

Portugal is sometimes largely forgotten by many but Lisbon is one of the oldest cities in the world thriving as a fishing port and trading centre before Rome was a twinkle in Romulus' eye. Granted we had one eye on the beach should the weather decide to turn unseasonably warm but what we were really there for was the culture, the sights and the food. Tourism's holy triumverate.

Our first experience of the left hand side of the Iberian peninsula was the language. We have long ago gotten over the fear of not knowing a language. After all, if language was cold hard cash we came out to Madrid with the equivalent of the change in our back pockets and have survived thus far. But the damn taxi driver assumed this complacency came from understanding every word of Portuguese he spoke. Which was a fallacy we left well enough alone. There is nothing more amusing than your means of transport from airport to hostel coming fully equipped with a rundown of countries that speak Portuguese and and a disheveled old driver lifting his arms from the steering wheel when cruising at a cool 80mph and declaring; "AL CENTRO!!"

Our hostel was the subliminal psychologically named YES hostel where we met an Estonian pro tennis official who had been to Mexico and loved their tacos. She was due to stay in Portugal for another three weeks. She had played tennis since she was a girl back in ze old country but the dream of playing professionally had been halted in its tracks and she now flitted from tournament to tournament acting as a trained umpire. I know you are wondering why and how I know all this but it's impossible not to listen to an Eastern European with a thick accent who's name you can't quite remember and who scares you senseless, even if she wasn't built like Leon Spinks...

We arrived in Lisbon late that Friday night and the next day we were up, filled full of hostel breakfast mainly consisting of carbohydrate, and ready to do some sightseeing. And to do that we had to get up close and personal with Lisbon's hills which were scaled by windy, cobbledy streets with ramshackle houses perched on top of each other higgledy-piggledy. We (read my more organised companions) had done our research. Tram 28 beckoned...

Tram 28, a €5 day ticket ride purchased, took us to the sights. It was cheerfully painted and chugged up those tiny, steep like a determined tank engine straight offa the island of Sodor. We got so close to the windows of the good citizens of the Alfama I could have shared a cup of strong coffee with the wee old women in headshawls enscounced inside.

That day we saw Lisbon from more angles than it's gynecologist. We clambered up to the top of a Moorish castle and looked at Lisbon from that. There was a little plaque that read "The Crusaders made their mark on Lisbon in 1096AD" Only 1096? Can only assume the lads were on an Erasmus year and looking to get as stocious and with as many local ladies as possible...

We wandered up to countless churches and looked at Lisbon some more. We viewed the Christ the King statue, identical to that in Rio, from the Iglesia do Graca. We viewed the huge suspension bridge over the harbour, identical to the Golden Gate, from the Sao Vicente monastery. We watched Lisbon like Clinton watched Monica Lewinsky walk away from him and like Clinton we like what we saw. It was ancient and lively and the sea air gave everything a freshness you don't find inland. Bougainvillea crept up the wooden posts which encircled white stone balconies that gave you a wonderful view of the harbour. And Fado music, which is sad and soft but sung by size 18 songstresses with the depth of Aretha and played by moustachioed guitarists. We know this must be a serious part of Portuguese culture because after having begrudgingly paid €3 each into the Fado Museum our merriment was hushed angrily by a guide who stated "Quiet, pleesh! I am tryink to make a tour!" Make all you want sister, Miguel Capucho's no Sinatra...

But the place that really stole our heart (apart from Portugal's version of a Chino which is an Indiano and where, on hearing I wasn't buying any sweeties unlike my companeras, the dueno gave me, then us all, some free bubblegum. I treasure that man in my heart of hearts...) was Sintra.

Sintra. Sintra was about 40mins outside Lisbon and was very dear to Lord Byron in his heydays. The place was full of palaces that were straight out of a Disney "happily ever after."

But ut was the main Pena palace that was a confection, filled with spires and turrets and painted pink, lemon yellow and soft green, commissioned by lovestruck Portuguese prince Ferdinand II for his schweetheart Maria of Braganza. It's enough to make you weep, I 've never even been gifted someone's last Rolo...

I can only hope poor old Ferdinand had less trouble getting his Maria all the way up to Pena. Even in our petrol fuelled days we wound our way round narrow roads where our driver thought an acceptable substitute for slowing down was to blare his horn before taking every corner like the Roadrunner. My whole life flashed before my eyes...it had less meaningful content than a rom com starring Jennifer Aniston...

When we eventually got there we were faced with the queue to end all queues. One booth tried to cope with a disgruntled busload. Until, that is, Borat came running into our midst, scooped us three out of the multitudes and professed "Cam with meeee, I weel help..." and ushered us in the gates.

This wasn't immediately encouraging. He turned out to be the keeper of Ye Olde Gift Shope and no one, not us, not the ticket office, not the security guard with his bewildered expression, not even Borat himself possibly, knew what he was doing.

"Do you llll-eeee-yke nay-choor?"

Do we like nature...should we answer?

"Eef you lll-eee-yke nay-choor eet is good to take the gardens."

Excellent advice Borat, well done. We shall take those gardens by storm. We will take them down to Chinatown. We will take 'em out to dinner and a show. We will take their vir...

Anywho, what I meant was that thanks to Borat we were able to get in ahead of all those chumps who queued in the light drizzle for as much as another hour. And we were rewarded with plenty of nature. More nature than you could shake a stick at. More sticks than you could shake a stick at for that matter... And a beautiful palace that surely couldn't have left Maria cold. Let's give a whey-hey and hope Ferdinand got to appreciate a bit of nature...

The beauty of Sintra didn't stop there. We came across some well nice gardens on our journey to fully appreciate nature. The type you could run round like hooligans; climbing mini towers, crossing rivers on stepping stones and wandering into caves so dark they testified to the lack of health and safety puritanical meddling. We were like children, loved every second, even the ones we screamed like actresses in a cheap B movie horror because we met some unsuspecting Spaniard coming the other way down one of those poorly lit subways. All in tremendous fun.

Back in Lisbon on that third day we fulfilled every tourists fantasy, that of seeing all there is to see and more. Of wandering round the Plaza Mayor, of making porcos of ourselves on the little egg custard pasteis pastries that were Lisbon's speciality and so would have been rude not to try. Once. Twice. Thrice. Several times. We went out to the historical part Belém with some lovely guys we happened to meet in le hostel. We immersed ourselves in religious imagery, homages to Portugal's seafaring past and tiny side street and cafés. We visited Eiffel's elevator, of lesser fame than his tower and we walked until out feet were mere stubs. But worth it? Oh yes...even if the taxi driver did rip us off shamelessly on the way back to the airport...

But to each his shady own! Back in Madrid once more the mind turns simultaneously to making the most of every instant until Cambridge calls us back/working like the divil himself so Cambridge actually does call us back... And more of how this paradox works to turn self into Bridget Jones anon, as the scene is set (whoops, slip of fingertips almost had me typing sexy and slippy mind almost had me leaving the typo) for my last few blogs in Madrid. And so help me Dios, they will be scorchers...

xo